


Lessons on Waking

by shihadchick



Category: U2, Virgin Prunes
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-30
Updated: 2005-08-30
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:25:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shihadchick/pseuds/shihadchick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another slice of life from an AU where members of U2 and the Virgin Prunes all share a Dublin flat in the 1970s.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lessons on Waking

He’s not sure whether it’s better now or not. Because before it was both of them, everywhere, everywhere he looked and everywhere he tried to sit (and eat, and sleep and… well, he didn’t really need to keep listing, did he? They had been, well, ubiquitous.)

 

But now. Now it’s him everywhere. In the kitchen, in the way when he tries to squeeze in and grab the milk (which is empty, or nearly so, as usual, and is he the only one who can be responsible enough to just go down to the shops to get more?) In the bedroom. A sprawling lump under the bedclothes, snoring softly, moving restlessly in the still air, the too-warm space. In the living room, sitting just that little bit too close on the sofa. Tipping into him as he flails wildly, trying to get up from the end with the broken springs that eats people on a regular basis. And last and not least (certainly not least, not at all) in the bathroom.

 

The bloody bathroom that is too small for six of them, even when they’re all on their best and most manly behaviour and following Bono’s ‘no more than ten minutes in there’ dictum, one that he himself is fairly bad at adhering to but the rest of them let him get away with it because, well, he’s Bono. Gavin is fairly good at defending his territory, having threatened bodily harm and vicious maiming upon anyone so foolish as to even look like they’re going to walk in on him, but Guggi is worse than Dik had ever been at remembering to even shut the door (too many siblings, that is, and Edge is well familiar with the symptoms there) and it’s about the third time in a week that Edge has stumbled blearily in to pee and surprised him in some form of undress. The first time he’d been shaving (badly) in a towel, having unabashedly stolen Larry’s razor and using it for not just chin but legs as well. The second time he’d been half dressed, scratching his underarm with his head tilted consideringly at the mirror. Edge had retreated, scattering apologies, half-wondering what he’d been thinking, but mostly concerned at making a quick getaway and giving thanks for the fact it hadn’t been too embarrassing.

 

The third time took the cake, however. Shoulder set to the sticky corner of the door he stumbled in, raising his hand to cover the yawn (his alarm feeling like it’d gone off an hour too early even more so than usual) and then the yawn was turning into a gasp, jaw dropping in horror, definitely horror, yep, not at all anything else- oh, fuck, who was he kidding, he was staring.

 

Staring.

 

At Guggi. Wet. Bedraggled, even. Hair hanging tangled in his eyes, the very negative of what Edge himself would look like in half an hours time as he made his own ablutions. Humming to himself, sinewy arm snaking out to toss the facecloth back towards the shelf, absolutely stark naked. Stark, staring raving bollocks naked. Um. Really good naked, actually.

 

Shit.

 

Edge mumbled something (stop looking, stop looking, back up, close the fucking door, idiot, get out getoutgetoutgetout) and grabbed blindly for a towel, looked up just long enough to catch the blithe unconcern on Guggi’s face (and how did that make him even more embarrassed? There was no logic to it at all) and threw it blindly towards him before more or less tripping over his own feet in his hurry to fall back to the relative safety of the bedroom.

 

Of course, that was forgetting the fact that he wasn’t the only one laying claim to that room. (Only one currently paying rent, though, and you’d think that would give him a bit more clout in this situation but no, God was simply not that kind.)

 

Two minutes later he was sat cross-legged on his bed, having evicted Bono by the simple expediency of sitting on his feet until he groaned and wandered off in search of toast, with his head in his hands, fingers twisting and pulling hair while he chewed on his lip, thinking furiously.

 

“Thanks for the towel, mate.”

 

Oh, so that was the way they were playing it, then. Okay, he could deal with that, and let out what he thought was a sigh of relief, and slumped in what he thought was an imperceptible way.

 

“Not a worry, Gug. Least I could do after barging in like that.”

 

But instead of the expected return comment of ‘that’s fine’ or ‘serves y’right’ there was only the creak and dip in the mattress as Guggi settled himself beside Edge, thigh warm from the shower and firm against his own bare pyjama-shorted leg.

 

Warm skin and- damp terrycloth. Still just wearing the towel.

 

Edge gulped. Carefully.

 

Looked up to see Guggi watching him. Carefully.

 

“I’m not Bono,” he said, distinctly, (distantly) precisely.

 

“I… know,” Edge was lost, and didn’t even try to hide the frown. “And?”

 

“And, so, I, well, I think. We should. Do something. Even if it’s just until we get them to realise what they want.”

 

”What?” was about all he could manage, considering he was even more lost (if that was possible) but getting the impression that actually this was going to be okay.

 

Guggi shifted closer (if that was even possible) and laid his hand against Edge’s chin, fingertips rolling little circular motions across his unshaven skin, tugging so they were eye to eye. “You. Me. This.”

 

And then there was pressure and damp, and wet towel scratching at his chest and a pillow somewhere in the middle of his back and his head knocking into the wall and his neck on a funny angle but none of it mattered because as well as that there was the tumble of skin and bones and want weighing him down and all over him, solid wet heat whiting out all sensible thought. “Oh, uh-“ he managed cleverly, but getting his hands under Guggi’s towel (and it wasn’t done up all that well now, was it?) seemed more important than a conversation which he realised quite clearly now had not been going anywhere other than here anyway, and so he let his mouth focus on doing other things, and let his hands wander where they would and arched back with a growl (and a bitten lip when he knocked his crown against the heater on the wall, and fuck, but that hurt, but worth it, so worth it) as Guggi bit his way down his neck, and then they were sliding, rolling, squirming about on the bed (did he shut the door after him? Edge can’t remember and he can’t really spare a glance to check because there’s acres of shiny slick skin in front of his eyes and he can’t stop looking, drinking it in) and they finally get lined up right, teeth and tongues lickslipslidingclashing in a wildly unpractised kiss, limbs tangled just right and feet knocking into the corner of the bedside table, bare soles sliding under the pillow at the head of the bed and the spare pillow crushed somewhere under their heads at the foot, and the curtain is caught up in the twisted blankets and one of them frees a hand to try and shove it back out of the way, and it’s then, that little tiny shift of weight and balance, the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Or, rather, the bed’s.

 

There’s a suspended moment where they both realise that something is Not Right and then they’re harmonising in strangled yelps as the lone slat bearing the weight of two healthy young boys gives up the ghost, the mattress following suit, bearing them to the carpet, folded in half and very much stuck in place.

 

A few seconds more of breathing and quiet mental recollection and cautious testing of extremities to establish that yes, there is no lasting damage except to the ego, and then Edge sighs, shifting his shoulders to try and free himself, something quite impossible with Guggi plastered up against his ribcage, and mutters “bugger” quite fervently, to which Guggi, laughing helplessly (something nice about the way his body shakes, something Edge finds himself wanting to explore in much greater detail later) only responds “well, maybe, but definitely on the other bed.”

 

He has to laugh as well.


End file.
